


Wreck & Ruin

by JennaGill



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Past Violence, Physical abuse of a child, Prompts in Panem, Special challenge, Therapy, Tumblr: promptsinpanem, emotional abuse of a child, onethatgotaway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8595466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaGill/pseuds/JennaGill
Summary: “When I tell you….you'll look at me differently. You'll see me as wounded and I'm not. Not anymore. And I don't want you to think of me like that. I'd like you to see me as a friend.”
Peeta Mellark has struggled with moving on from his childhood. Can he do it with peer counselor Katniss Everdeen? Modern AU. Rated E for language, adult content, emotional and physical child abuse, and disturbing violence toward a child.
Written for Prompts in Panem - Special Challenges - One That Got Away





	

 

Session 6: Hello

_It starts with this fantasy._

_It's not really a fantasy. A dream? A hope? A plan? Maybe._

_I would walk into your office, introduce myself as your worst nightmare.  You would smile politely, not realizing your future and thinking it was a joke. A light bulb would flash in the dark recesses of your mind. An old fear would resurface. And you'd recognize my blue eyes and ashy blond hair, so much like your own._

_“Peeta?” you’d whisper as your complexion pales to ghost white._

_I'd let you chew on that thought for a while before I nod in confirmation._

_“Hello, mother.”_

“And from there I freeze up,” he admits.

“Go on,” his therapist encourages in her soft, comforting voice.

Sometimes she uses her clinical voice on him. Sometimes she's bossy. He likes that voice the best. He is not supposed to like it, of course. He is not supposed to be attracted to her. The doctor-patient relationship is tricky enough without complicating it with his feelings, even when it's a farce.

“That's just it, Dr. Everdeen,” he begins. “I usually either wake up, paralyzed in terror, or I can’t move past the introduction part when I run through the scenario in my mind. I don't know what to say after I've confronted her.”

“Well, this is a good start, Mr. Mellark,” she says. “Is this something you think about often?”

“Yes and no. I think about it a lot when I'm upset. I don't think about it when I'm not. It's sort of my go-to negative thought,” he explains.

“Why do you think that is?” she prompts.

“I guess if something is going bad for me, thinking about her makes it worse?” he describes. “Thinking about how she's managing to go about her daily routine without thinking about me makes me sadder,” he pauses and swallows. “Strategizing about how to wreck her day...how to burst her bubble...makes me feel better, gives me control over the negativity.”

“Well, you've heard the proverb—two wrongs don't make a right? So I can't really advocate negative thoughts toward another person, even your mother,” she says, back in her clinical tone.

“Please don't stand up for her or explain away her actions,” he asks.

“I would never excuse abuse,” Katniss states. “I am suggesting that you focus on the good that could come from this. That you might gain a better understanding for her actions, to give it some closure.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay.” And takes a few more deep breaths for good measure.

“What is it that you want her to know?”

He contemplates this question. It's a good one. His train of thought hops from one dark idea to another until he lands at his destination. “I want her to know that, despite her best efforts to wreck me, I survived. I graduated not only high school and college but am working on my graduate degree in teaching as well. I have friends, a solid job, a mortgage, and a dog. All without her. I need her to know that she didn't win.”

“There aren't any true victors in life, Mr. Mellark, just survivors.”

“Then I need her to know that I survived.”

She scratches the last bit out on her tablet and sets it aside.

“Mr. Mellark, this is our sixth appointment and you haven't described, in your words, what all has transpired.”

A soft bolt of lightning streaks across the sky outside, drawing their attention to the time. Their hour is almost up.

“Well, I guess it'll have to wait until our next session, Dr. Everdeen.”

“Saved by the bell, Mr. Mellark. Until next time then?”

“See you next week, Dr. Everdeen,” he says as he puts on his coat and shuffles out of the makeshift office, taking the long elevator ride twelve floors down to the street.

He considers her question and whether he’s ready or not to discuss the details of his mother's abuse.

From their very first handshake, there was a spark of hope. Hope that she'd be able to help him. Hope that he could open up to her. Hope for his future. Hope that he'll heal.

He hadn't seen her around on campus but that's not unusual for graduate students. Splitting hours of the day between coursework, research, teaching, or another job, there's not much time to lounge in the student center.

The first five sessions had seemed to fly by. The most memorable being the first, when Dr. Everdeen had devised a game from her mentor, Dr. Jackson. She introduced him to ‘real or not real’ therapy to help him differentiate between things that are true and things that are imagined. It has helped them get to know each other better, to gain trust.

The conversation floats back to his mind.

_“Is it wise to question my reality, Doctor?”_

_“It's a trust exercise, Mr. Mellark. I need to trust that you’re telling me the truth, and you need to trust me with your truths.”_

_“I see, but who is to verify these truths if we are just starting to get to know one another? How will you be able to confirm or deny most of what weighs on me?”_

_“That’s an excellent question, Mr. Mellark. We’ll have to start small. With the little, observable things and go from there. Would you like to begin?”_

In just a short time, he had gotten to a good place with her. He spent a long time considering even the smallest pieces of information, but the foundation for their trust is of utmost importance. His greatest confusion still seems to center around his mother—and not everything can be explained simply—especially since he’s holding back on all of his truths. Some of the exchanges have been painful and loaded, but he knows the worst is yet to come.  

His co-worker Annie had recommended therapy with Dr. Everdeen after he cried on her shoulder and talked about how fucked up he felt at times. How he could break down over something as random as an Adele song. It seemed like there was something damaged, broken deep inside of him. It's held him back in so many ways. He hasn't wanted to open himself up to major relationships.

Annie is the closest he has gotten to a platonic relationship since Delly Cartwright. Delly was his neighbor growing up—they played like siblings when they were young. Her parents owned the shoe store next to his parents’ bakery. Delly was a ray of sunshine compared to the stifling atmosphere at home, where his mother’s actions always hung over the family.  He took Delly to their high school prom, and they figured, as friends, it would be better to lose their virginity to each other before going off to college. They would occasionally hook up when they came home for holidays and summers. That abruptly ended when she met Thom her senior year. They're happily married now with one on the way. Since then, it's been a string of casual relationships. He never lets anyone get too close, or his walls are too thick. The thing with Delly was never romantic—she was safe. And she knew. So he didn’t need to explain his issues with intimacy to her.  

He recalls explaining it to Dr. Everdeen in another session.

_“You see, I have a hard time opening myself up. I don't care if a girl sees me naked, but to have my heart in her hands, that's something different altogether.”_

_“You're afraid of getting hurt again, real or not real?”_

_“Real.”_

He was averse to seeing a psychologist and even more against seeing a psychiatrist—he didn't want be prescribed anything that would disrupt his already troubled sleeping pattern. The peer counseling offered through Capitol University had seemed liked the best option. He sees a psych student every week, pretends she's his doctor, and spills his guts. He gets someone to talk to, and she gets credits towards her advanced degree program.

He reflects on his childhood some more. He took direction well as a child. Obeyed his parents and wrestling coach all through school. He led by example. It didn't stop his mom from finding fault in his actions, even as a small child. From doing what she did. It's time to tell her why this dream….this confrontation is so important to him. Next Thursday. Maybe.

He doesn't always have this dream, but when he does there's nothing to comfort him when he wakes up either, just the knowledge that his mother wronged him—repeatedly. Annie’s suggestion was earnest though, telling him all about how Katniss had helped her work through previous traumas that she won't share. Annie is on a first-name basis with Katniss. They hug at the close of each session. Katniss and he aren't. And they don't. It wouldn't feel right. No matter how much he'd like that.

It's more than her body too. It's the way she's opened his mind and heart to the possibility of moving on from his past, for good. She's also ridiculously patient with him and his stubbornness. Every now and then, he see cracks in the veneer. She bites her lip and scowls at him. A lot. She's pretty stubborn herself though he imagines that she sees him as a tough nut to crack too. Formidable on the outside, full of secrets and scary stuff of the inside. Can he tell her though? He signed up for this exercise with that inevitability, but now that he has gotten to know her, it's going to be harder to admit these atrocities.

Until then, it will be another long night of absorbing and decompressing his therapy...and denying to himself that it's his pseudo-therapist he’s envisioning when he jacks off before bed.

 

Session 7: Flirting

_Patient Mellark has only supplied hints as to the depths of abuse inflicted by his mother. His leg injury is evident, though he hasn't mentioned it specifically yet. I can hear the difference in his footfalls. One is heavier than the other._

_My intuition tells me that the damage goes beyond physical abuse. That she has stripped him of confidence in relationships and that, while he presents himself as put together, still waters run deep. He might have several layers left to peel back before he can truly heal and feel strong enough to confront her._

She finishes reviewing her notes from their last appointment and raises her head to see him being ushered into the room, promptly at 4pm. “Thanks Rue,” she directs to the student assistant, who slips from the room before she ends the statement.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Everdeen,” he greets and takes his seat in the English roll arm chaise across from her. He’s wearing a gray fleece today that stretches across his broad shoulders. Although it isn’t necessary, she secretly loves it when he calls her ‘Dr.’ He’s great at this stuff. He leans back and props one ankle on his knee. His shoelaces are double knotted. Someone is feeling relaxed today.

“Mr. Mellark, in our last session,” she starts and sees him suck in a breath, bracing himself for her question. “You listed friends, employment, housing status, and pet ownership as qualifications to prove your success to your mother. Real or not real?”

“Real,” he replies and seems to breathe a sigh of relief from her change in tactics.

“What about other relationships? A life partner, perhaps?”

“I've always wanted a family. Teach my kids how to paint and bake. A way to show my mom that I can do that better than her too. But…”

She looks up from her notes and echoes him, “But?”

“That's also pretty selfish. I do want to settle down eventually, but for now—I think I should let you straighten me out first.”

“Well, Mr. Mellark, you're here to straighten yourself out. It's my job to provide the tools and avenues to help you get there.”

“Yes, of course. You know what I mean,” he says.

“So who is your support network?”

“I suppose my dad and brother Rye,” he says. “Annie is my work friend.”

The question is burning on the tip of her tongue but it would be highly unprofessional. “So are you dating anyone?” she asks hesitantly.

“Not real,” he says, and his blue eyes lock on hers. The intensity of his gaze brings a flush to her cheeks. “I've noticed just about every girl out there, but none have made a lasting impression.”

It's her turn to be secretly relieved, though it might be better for their arrangement if he is in an otherwise committed relationship.

“Are you seeing anyone?” he counters, snapping her out her haze, and she shakes her head of these thoughts.

“Mr. Mellark, I'm seeing you right now,” she quips.

“You know what I mean,” he says and then gives her a smile that seems so sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through her.  

“It's a personal question, and as I said previously, we're here for you and not me.”

“Yes...but we're also building a trust here. And how can I trust you if you won't talk about yourself?”

“I think you're just stalling,” she huffs.

“Maybe. Or I _might_ be taking this therapy seriously and wanting to build the _circle of trust_ that you psych grads advocate.”

“I don't like talking about myself,” she states.

“Well, I like talking about you,” he teases. “Look...Katniss—can I call you Katniss?”

“Yes, of course. Can I call you Peeta?

Her question throws him off track momentarily. “Yeah, I think it's best if we’re straight with each other.”

“I agree.”

“I've noticed everything about you. It was you that wasn't paying attention.”

“It's my job to pay attention, Peeta.”

“I've noticed that your favorite color is green. Real or not real.”

“Oh is it now?”

“Yeah, you wear it all the time. It features prominently in the way you've decorated this space. Even if it's just temporary... you’ve put those spruce candles everywhere. You never drink coffee, but hot chocolate instead sometimes. And you're cautious with your smiles. So much so that when I can get one out of you, they are radiant.”

“Green is soothing and promotes energy, healing,” she says, ignoring the compliment.

“Did you read that in a book?”

“No, do you disagree?” she challenges.

“I know a thing or two about color. I started off sketching as a child with crayons, charcoal, anything I could get my hands on. Then, later, my dad let me frost the cakes at the bakery. When I got older, I moved on to painting. Smearing real paint on a canvas is another one of my coping mechanisms, I guess. I get all the bad out when I paint.”

“What do you paint?”

“My nightmares, the things I see every night.”

“Does it help? To paint them out?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m a little less afraid to fall asleep, or at least I tell myself that I am,” he says. “But they haven’t gone anywhere.”

“Hmmm, is that all you paint?”

“No, some days I just play with color. Like your green, I can make the color of spring grass, or the darkest shade of autumn, just before it turns to gold. One time, I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for sunlight on white fur. I thought it might be yellow, but it was so much more than that. Layers of all sorts of color. One by one,” he says.

“Therapy is kind of like that,” she says, imagining the effect and then clears her throat. “Mr. Mellark, the only progress we've made this hour is an in-depth discussion on color and the fact that we're both single,” she says in annoyance. “Your and my time is certainly more valuable than that.”

His face lights up with hope. “So you're not dating anyone then?”

She hangs her head and hides behind her palm. She walked into that one. “Gah, no. Are you happy now?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am. My trust-o-meter just raised two notches.” His grin widens, revealing two irresistible dimples.

“And since we're sharing, what's your favorite color?”

“It's orange.”

“Orange?” She says and makes a face, thinking of the university’s mascot, a garish talking yam.

“Yeah, not bright orange but a bit more muted,” he says. “More like...sunset.”

“Great, maybe now that we've cleared all that up, we can try focusing on the issues at hand next week,” she suggests.

He grins at her like she has just told the most amusing joke he's ever heard. “But think of how much better we know each other now. It was almost like a first date.”

“You're ridiculous, that's impossible anyway,” she says as he reaches the door.

“Oh?” He stops and leans against the door.

“Yes, it's against the rules, not to mention highly unethical—even for a student exercise. Dean Snow wouldn't hesitate in tossing me out of the program. He could ruin me.”

“But we can be friends, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Because I can't spill all of my guts to someone who's not my friend.”

“Well I’m glad we have that worked out,” she deadpans.

She closes the session out and thinks more about her dating life and how Peeta fits into that. She has other pseudo-patients that she gives equal treatment to...but there's an extra layer with Peeta. She can still compartmentalize his therapy and her growing attraction to him. She wanted to laugh out loud earlier in their discussion. _If only he knew…._ She hasn't been on a real date in years and gets more satisfaction from taking care of herself than she did from the meager talents of her last boyfriend. She does have a habit of forming relationships with men that she works closely with. First Gale in undergrad, and then Darius at the onset of grad school. It's been a few years now though, and she's stayed focused on her program. It wasn't until she started seeing Peeta as a patient that she dug out her vibrator from the sock drawer.

 

Session 8: Family

Starting the session is always the hardest. Katniss seems to struggle with the idle small talk. She seems to hit her stride once they’re talking about his issues, but every now and then he can get her to open up to him. He collects each new fact and files it away under ‘things that fascinate him.’ Today's fact is that her ass looks amazing in a pencil skirt. Last session revealed that she's single. And confirmed that her favorite color is green. It makes him hopeful that once they finish this, she might be interested in him non-professionally. If she's not horrified by or pitying him. It’s a dangerous line, getting blurrier with every appointment and his increasing awareness of her.

“Was that you on Monday at the student center?”

“What?”

“I was in there on Monday getting hot tea, and I thought I saw you getting… hot chocolate, right?”

Her blush and small smile tells him that he’s right.

“There's just something about a brisk, fall day that gets me craving one.”

He’d like to know more about her cravings, but her face has slipped back to all business. He can't complain though. All of her expressions are attractive.

“Let's get back to your support network. Tell me about your family.”

“My oldest brother was...is her favorite. She still keeps in contact with him, and he passes information to the rest of us.”

“What about your other brother?”

“Rye? She was somewhat indifferent on him. She seemed to focus her ire on me and my dad.”

“Tell me more about your dad.”

“He’s not very talkative, especially about her, so it’s hard to get anything out of him,” he says and shifts in his seat. “My dad had a healthy fear of her. She is from a powerful family. One that protects her and shields her from authorities. And consequences.”

“So his fear...is it real or not real?”

“Real. Yeah, I don't want to call it paranoia...but I remember him being really shaken up after a car accident when I was younger. He thought she had arranged for a car to run us off the road.”

“He thought she was trying to harm him, real or not real?”

“Oh, most assuredly real. She was always trying to harm us in some way. Emotional. Physical. She picked her poison to get the job done,” he says carefully.

“How did they meet?”

“In business school. Dad was taking classes for his burgeoning small business at the bakery. Mom was there taking advanced classes, volunteering as a tutor.”

“And they hit it off?”

“Yeah, they did. My oldest brother was born less than a year later. And Rye came along not too much longer after that, and they finished school.”

“And then you?”

“Yes, and then two years later I was born...not a girl, as she hoped. Maybe that's where her disappointment with me started.”

She clears her throat, bringing me back to the story.

“Or maybe it was because she was staying at home with us and not out in the working world. It seems like as soon as she could...after what happened had passed…she jumped at the chance to get back in the office. She even took back her maiden name to disassociate with us.”

“You're going to have to tell me eventually.”

“I know. I'm not ready.”

“When will you be ready?”

“I don't know.”

“What's holding you back?”

“When I tell you….you'll look at me differently. You'll see me as _wounded_ and I'm not. Not anymore. And I don't want you to think of me like that. I'd like you to see me _as a friend._ ”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of how I see you?”

He gulps. She has a point. “I can do that.”

“Good. I'm glad we have that cleared up,” she says and consults her notes. She scowls at them quite frequently, as if the secret to life’s answers would be revealed in her chicken scratch.

“Peeta, since we’re on the topic of family. Can you tell me more about your mother? The good and the bad. Just your memories of her so that I can get a sense of the whole family.”

“Well, I’m sure there are good memories locked somewhere in my subconscious, but all I really remember is the yelling. Grumbling too. I was constantly seeking affection, but she would just tell me ‘go away, you stupid creature,’ and I would.”

“Go on,” Katniss encourages, stroking her braid.

“At first, and even before the really bad stuff happened...I was scared to tell anyone. I loved my mom as a kid and didn’t understand why she made me feel so bad. My kindergarten teacher told my dad that I was a withdrawn child at times. She expressed concern that I might have depression. And that just didn’t make any sense to him, since I was always happier around him.”

“It’s important to differentiate that early childhood trauma doesn’t necessarily lead to depression or anxiety. There could be other factors too.”   

“Well, you tell me, Katniss. Am I depressed? Do I have anxiety?”

“Her actions undermined your growing self-confidence, so it would have been low as you were building the foundation for your personality,” she explains and tucks a stray hair back into her plait. “So the environment would have been there to start developing those feelings, but no. It’s not my opinion that you are depressed. Anxious...yes, which is what we’re here to work on.”  

“Okay…” he draws the word out as he absorbs this information.

“In fact, confrontation may not be right for you, Peeta. It all goes back to your motivation, which should be self-healing and not just sticking it to the person that hurt you. If you truly feel that confronting your abuser will give you a sense of…,” she fudges, “...closure, then we should stay on that path. But if seeing her will send you into a spiral that would lead you to depression, then we need a new plan.”

“Why did you hesitate on ‘closure’?”

“Ugh, it’s sort of a dreaded word. Because it’s sometimes unattainable, and it’s not good to set too lofty of a goal for our patients.”

“That makes sense. But do think it’s a possibility for me?”

“I do. Again...dependent on your motivation.”

“I do too. I mean, I think it will help me to see her again, say my peace, and then walk way.”

“Okay, good. Did you have any other family memories you wanted to share today?”

“Yes, actually. I have another story for you.”

“Oh?”

“Five years ago, when I graduated college, I was feeling pretty proud of myself.”

“As you should.”

“Yeah, well maybe a little too proud. I was feeling invincible, really.”

“How did that feel?”

“Amazing.”

“So what happened?”

“I sent my mom my graduation announcement. Just to show her that I accomplished this milestone. I sent it never expecting anything in return. Just maybe the satisfaction that I'd maybe ruined her day.”

“So it felt good, real or not real?”

“Real, until a card arrived a few weeks later. From her.”

“A card? That sounds ominous.”

“Well, there's a backstory to her card too.”

“Do tell.”

“You see...last year, my mom’s sister reached out through various channels to my dad. She was dealing with a lot of life regrets. One of them was the raw deal I got and how their family turned their backs on me. My mom had shared my announcement card with her. She relayed that my mother panicked. And was frantic to keep it quiet.”

“So… kind of the reaction you were hoping for, real or not real?” Katniss suggests.

“Real, but it's worse because her sister suggested the opposite. That as a proud mother, she should be in the front row of the auditorium, clapping the loudest as I walked across the stage to accept my diploma. And that she should buy me a car to start making up for everything.”

“Did she?”

“No, she only sent the card. Said she wouldn't be able to make it, but that we ‘should do lunch sometime,’” he signals in air quotes.

“Why do you feel that it was worse?”

“I guess...just knowing that there are people in her camp shaming her. That she gets reminders from others, and yet she still continues to do nothing to right her wrongs.”

“I see. So that is the only contact you've had with her?”

“It's the most direct, in an indirect way.”

“How so?”

“Well, other family friends have seen her at social functions. Friends of my dad that _know_. They tell her how wonderful I am. How well I've grown up, just to get under her skin.”

“So…”

“These friends always report back that she pales, almost like she's seen a ghost.”

“Do you think that's how she sees you?”

He shrugs. “I don't know, but she must not like the reminder, because she usually runs off and avoids that person for the rest of the event for good measure.”

“So other people are talking to her about you. You've sent her one piece of mail. But you've had no other contact with her in the twenty-two years since…”

“Since she was court-ordered to stay away from me.”

“Well, she _is_ obeying it then.”

“Restraining orders don’t last forever. She could have tried,” he snaps. “And don't be fooled into thinking that she's suddenly a law-abiding citizen. What she did to me was highly illegal and immoral.”

“Well, I look forward to the day when you can trust me enough to tell me about it.”

“Soon, Katniss. Soon,” he promises with a lighter tone.

“What will I have to exchange for your secrets?”

“Well, you already get the pleasure of my company...what more could you ask for?” he teases.

She blushes and drops her eyelids in mock flirtation. “Ugh. Nothing really.”

He closes out the session on a good note, getting closer to his full history and falling for her.

Session 9: Dissociation

_Patient Mellark still exhibits reluctance to share his history of abuse. He's obviously nervous about being seen differently, but if he only knew…._

She sighs and clicks the recording off. It's highly unethical and wrong. Just wrong. A real doctor isn't supposed to have these feelings toward a patient. She’s treading into dangerous territory here. It's good this is just a theoretical arrangement and she has control over her feelings. Control. Such a funny illusion. She already sees him differently than the other students she has sessions with. She wants to heal his heart, and she also wants to do wicked things to his body.

_Patient Mellark’s anxiety centers around the emotional and potentially physical abuse from his mother. He’s sharing more and more with me, but I sense the hesitation about opening up fully. We need to be honest with one another, but if the truth is too painful, I will need to figure out how to help him by piecing together the clues and figuring out the big picture._

Her phone rings. A number she doesn't recognize flashes across the screen. “This is Katniss,” she greets her caller.

“Ah, Ms. Everdeen. This is Dean Coriolanus Snow. So fortunate that I have caught you,” he says in eerie formality.

The room temperature drops a few degrees from his icy tone. “Oh, don't be alarmed dear. This is a check-in call for your student exercise with Peeta Mellark.”

“Yes. I'm am seeing several students through this program, sir. “

“Yes, but Mr. Mellark’s case is of particular interest, isn't it? You seem much more engaged in his sessions than you do with the others. Remember that the sessions are audio-recorded for auditing. We want to ensure that all counselors are operating to the best of their abilities and that the participants are receiving quality care through this exercise.”

There's an undercurrent of accusation that the program isn't working or that she's showing partiality to this particular program participant.

“Yes, sir, I know that they are recorded, but I feel like I am showing all participants the same level of involvement in the program.”

He makes an odd cough on the other end of the line. “I suggest you aim higher than equal treatment,” he says.

“How do you mean, sir?”

“My dear Ms. Everdeen, I would like you to convince _me_ that you are not giving Mr. Mellark special treatment.”

“Yes...yes, sir,” she says and consults the clock. Peeta should be arriving soon. “I can do that, Dean Snow.”

“That will be all today. Thank you, Ms. Everdeen,” he says in dismissal and ends the call.

She takes five deep breaths to calm her nerves. She searches around within herself and comes back with nothing. It's true that she's attracted to Peeta, but she isn't showing him any preferential treatment over the other program participants.

She has just reassured herself when he strides into the the office and sits, immediately putting her at ease after the call from Snow. He's wearing a green sweater today that brings out the blue in his eyes. Katniss fights her attraction and fails. He's going to be difficult to resist today, but she knows she needs to keep it on the up and up. She bites her lip and consults the wall calendar.

“Thanksgiving is in two weeks,” she states. “Can you come in on Wednesday that week, instead of Thursday?”

“Yeah, I'm not travelling or anything. Are you?”

“Yes, the offices will close down, and I'll make the quick trip to my sister’s place for the long weekend after your appointment.”

“I didn't know you have a sister.”

“Well, that's because we’re here to learn about you, not me.”

“C’mon, tell me about her. Please?”

“Prim is four years younger than me and still in med school. She's my motivation.”

“Two daughters pursuing medicine, healing minds and bodies. Your parents must be so proud, real or not real?” he says with an edge of sadness.

“Well...not real. My dad passed sixteen years ago, so it's just my mom. It was actually her grief that led me to psychology. I wanted to help people before they got to her level of depression or to guide them away from the all-consuming darkness.”

“Sounds grim.”

“It was, but she's better now.”

“I'm glad. I don't need a fellow member in my shitty mother club.”

“How are you feeling today, Peeta?”

“Good.”

“Do you feel like we're making progress?”

He smiles wide. “Yes, yes I do. I've enjoyed working with you more than the child therapists my dad sent me to after….”

As his voice trails off, she nudges him, “What do you remember from that?”

“Mostly that they had cool toys that I'd play with and they'd observe me.”

“Yes, from what I've learned child psychology is extremely difficult.”

“They seemed concerned when I arranged an all-boy society, no mothers allowed.”

“Hmmm….A child's mind is so intuitive.”

“Tell me about it. I see it everyday at work.”

“Can you expand on that?”

“I look out across my classroom, well...Mrs. Bristel’s classroom, where I do my assistant teaching, and the sea of shiny little first grader faces beaming back at me assures me that I could never harm a child, especially one that was of my own making.”

“You look at them and wonder how she could do whatever it was that she did, real or not real?”

“Real.”

"I also interact with the parents. They are so doting on their children. Sometimes I'm jealous that I didn't get that. Most of the time I'm happy for them, that they have that.”

“This is good, Mr. Mellark. This dissociation between you and your mother. You're nothing like her, at least that I can tell.”

“Just in appearances. I favor her coloring.”

“The prolonged detachment is a coping mechanism. Tell me, did you have any other maternal figures in your life?”

“No, my dad’s parents weren't really in the picture, so it was just my brothers and my dad.”

“It also supports our real or not real game. She's the monster. You're the victim.”

“What if there's a monster inside of me though, lurking in the dark? What if I have mutt genes and one day I'll try to harm those close to me?”

“Tell me more about that.”

“Sometimes I have these….dark urges. Not to hit or strike, but I feel the aggression building within me.”

“And you associate those with anger, real or not real?”

“Real.”

“Well, we need to work on how to address and curtail those feelings.”

He nods his head. “I have this fear that I'll be just like her. That if I express my hurt and anger, I'll become her because that's what she did. Constant belittling, berating, and blaming. I mean… I clearly remember her telling me that she wishes I hadn't been born. Then the other thing happened….” he trails off again.

“What she did was wrong. You didn't deserve it,” she prompts him to keep talking.

“And then I felt isolated, because none of my friends’ moms talked like that. I thought there really must be something wrong with me for her to do that.”

“Oh no, no, Peeta. Not real.”

“I know now that I wasn't. That there were other children, way worse off than me. Starved, abused, tortured. My case is mild compared to some, but still awful for me.”

“Of course, Peeta.”

“My mother rated others above me too, to my face.” The pain in his eyes tells me he's not lying.

“The pain you experienced is real. It’s valid.”

He nods and squeezes his eyes shut, taking a moment to compose himself.

“My greatest fear though, is doing this, confronting her...I don't know how to say it exactly.”

“Say it however you need to.”

“I want to come out of it as myself. I don’t want it to change me. Or turn me into some kind of monster that I’m not. I’m not like her, and I need to show her that.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, she doesn’t own me. I’m not a piece in her game. I just want to move past these trust issues and my fears and get on with my life.”

“Mr. Mellark, there's a chance you could come away from this changed. But for the better.”

“I hope to be, there’s just so much more to get through.”

She circles back to the elephant in the room.

“Peeta, it’s not absolutely necessary for you to tell me. I know it will be painful. We just have to identify what perpetuates your fear of her.”

“It’s okay,” he chokes up. “Just not today, next time.”   

They close out the session on a neutral note after covering a lot of ground. She feels that he is close, very close. She just hopes that he is ready to bare it all.

Session 10: Purple Water

He is very interested in this woman. He also feels like she is getting to know him inside and out, but there's a hurdle there. The more he opens up to her, the more exposed he feels. It's liberating and frightening at the same time. What if she sees something underneath all of the layers he has cloaked himself in? What if there's a monster inside of him like his mom? What will Katniss do if she has to deal with the mutt side of him? Will she run or help him find his way back?

He wants to make a move on her somehow, but the timing isn’t right. It’s time for something else instead.

“Peeta, like I said last time, if reliving this memory is going to be a setback for you, then it's not the right move for your therapy. You once spoke in terms of not being a piece in her game, and surely you’ve learned enough about chess to know that there's more than one way to get past the queen,” she says to open the session.

“I don't think it'll be a setback.”

“Okay, I know I've pressed you to tell me in the past, and I've read up more on that. I think I might have been wrong. I've thought about it more and just want you to know that neither you nor I have to understand fully what happened to get past it. We just need to tease out what perpetuates your fear of your mom.”

“I think that by talking about it, I can articulate why the idea of confronting her is so upsetting, but yet alluring to me.”

He takes a deep breath and picks a spot on the wall to stare at, to ground him. There's an irregularity in the wallpaper, a chink in the armor, that he chooses to focus on.

“Please tell me your story then,” she says.

“Of course, the physical evidence is there in my medical files. I was so young, I wasn't able to really verbalize what was happening when she had her parental visits,” he starts with a visible tremor in his hands. He sits on them to hide it.

“This was after their divorce then, putting you at around five or six?

“Yes, you see, I would come back home to my dad scared and sick after being at my mom’s.”

He hears her grind her molars, and he continues.

“At first, everyone thought that she was just feeding me junk food, letting me watch scary movies. Age-inappropriate stuff. But it persisted.”

“What about your brothers?”

“They came home fine from the visitations with mom. No changes in their health or behaviors.”

“Okay, please go on.”

“So this continued for weeks, until she slipped up and changed her tactics. I came home and told my dad and grandparents enough for them to suspect that something was happening. They tested my hair, and the proof was there. They kept the records to show me when I was ready to learn more. When they exposed her at her next scheduled pickup time, she exploded. She denied it at first,” he says, releasing a shaky breath. “Then she blamed my dad, saying he must have done it.”

She sits frozen as he continues.

He pauses and smooths down his hair. “She must have been pretty desperate at that point. She threw me down the stairs, breaking my ankle. The kicker is, because of the venom accumulation in my system, there was irreparable damage to the tendons and nerves in that joint, no matter how many surgeries I endured to try to fix it.”

She gasps, and he feels her gaze on his ankle.

“I was pretty good at keeping it hidden. Especially through high school sports. The coaches would have never let me on the team if they knew I was a cripple.”

He looks away from the spot on the wall and focuses on Katniss. She's controlling her breathing better than him, but her eyes are overflowing with questions. He nods his head to let her begin.

“Are you saying that she….poisoned you, real or not real?”

He nods again in confirmation. “Real.”

She closes her eyes and purses her lips, inhaling an enormous breath. She exhales for what feels like forever. “Please continue.”

“Is was just a little at first. Sprinkled here and there on my food. Just enough to make me scared and sick. Enough to make me suffer and impact my dad's schedule to take care of me,” he explains and feels the cold sweats forming at his hairline.  

“What were your symptoms?”

“Mostly vomiting and paranoia,” he thinks, “fatigue too. I was so young.”

Katniss scribbles a note on her pad.

“She left my brothers alone and focused her venom on me, figuratively and literally. It was like that before they even separated. She took out her frustrations on me and my dad.”

“Why?” Katniss croaks, her voice breaking at the end. “Do you know why?”

“No, that's just it. I don't know what kind of evil lives within her that would motivate her to inject her own son with poison when she wanted faster results.” He is shaking throughout his body now.

Katniss gasps and covers her mouth to cover her reaction.

“I came home that day to my dad, crying.” He digs at his eyes to staunch the present flow of tears. “Came home and told him that mommy put purple water in a needle and _stuck it_ in me.”

“How did she even have access to such a powerful substance?”

He shrugs. “Her parents owned a pharmaceutical company. She would have had access to the lab and the supplies. I never really thought about it.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“The doctors confirmed that it was pharmaceutical-grade Tracker Jacker venom. Taken from the deadly wasps and refined in a lab, so it fits that it was her weapon of choice, since she couldn't hurt me with her words or hands anymore.”

Katniss collects herself with a few deep breaths.

"Thank you for telling me, Peeta. I know that wasn't easy,” she says and reaches out for his hands.

“I'm so tired, Katniss. So tired of pretending to be okay,” he says with a weary voice, accepting her hands.

“You don't have to pretend anymore, Peeta.”

He nods, exhausted and raw. He’s just peeled back the biggest, deepest scab in his psyche and left it open for examination.

“You survived.”

He closes his eyes and nods again.

“You're very resilient in spite of this trauma. You must have had incredibly positive social and familial relationships.”

“My dad was wonderful. He always felt like he had to make up for exposing me to her.”

“Well, that wasn’t his burden to carry either, but I’m glad that he was there for you,” she says and sets her notepad aside to stand.

He looks to the clock and sees that they’re out of time again.

She crosses the room and grabs him by the shoulders for a bear hug, or what she can manage for a bear hug.  

Beyond their occasional handshakes, this is the most prolonged contact he has had with Katniss. She's so small wrapped in his arms and feels so strong. He melts into her, breathing her in and resting his head on her shoulder. His cheeks compress against her soft sweater. She smells like the forest, wild and free.

They're both crying. Both emotionally spent from the session.

She pulls away from him and reaches for the box of tissues. She grabs one to dab at her eyes, but he just uses his sleeve.

He leaves the session not knowing if his nightmares will intensify or not after dredging up all of those old memories. He hopes they don’t.

Session 11: Thanksgiving

_Patient Mellark revealed his worst to me in our last session, breaking through that final barrier to healing him. He was poisoned in his early childhood and his foot was damaged as a result of a fall down the stairs. All at the hands of his mother. I can’t even fathom these acts after a week of processing about them, but we’ll find a way to help him move past it._

She pauses the tape and thinks about her own childhood. Surely these horrors and worse exist in the world, but she had not known them personally. Her parents never hit them. Her mother’s parenting style had it downfalls after her dad’s accident, but she never hurt them physically.

Peeta arrives agitated, antsy.

“Rue’s not here?”

“No, she's left for the holiday already. It's just us.”

His eyes flit from hers like they have so many times before. In shame? In frustration?

She’s surprised at his countenance, given the way they closed out his last session, but she’s learned to expect anything and everything from Peeta Mellark.

He's pacing and tugging at his hair. His answers are short and terse.

“I did some research after our last session, Peeta. The poison your mother used is derived from Tracker Jacker venom…. Used in copious amounts, it is lethal, but it sounds like she wasn't trying to kill you, just make you sick.”

He stops short from pacing.

“Honestly, I would have rather her of just injected me with Nightlock. It's quick and effective. I wouldn't be sitting here, twenty-two years later, wondering how fucked up she is to have done that.”

“Oh, Peeta, no. I'm telling you this so you can see that ultimately she wasn't trying to kill you—”

“Just fuck me up for life,” he cuts her off. “Don't you think that's worse?

“No, I think it demarcates her between homicidal and not.”

“So she's deranged, but not a fucking killer?”

“What I’m saying is that usually in cases like yours, the goal is for the abuser to get attention but it seems like she was motivated by malice. Like she gained some sick satisfaction from harming you and putting your dad out. It speaks to the depths of her psychosis.”

“Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.”  

It’s like a slap in the face after all of their progress last week. She wonders if he does have a hidden mean streak in him. She wants to test his limits and impulsively turns off the recorder to do so.

“Peeta, you're obviously bothered. Please tell me what's going on.”

“My dad called me on the way here. He heard that my mom might be up for a promotion, and that's just not right.”

“From your older brother?”

“Yeah, she has to know that Graham tells us everything. She probably gets off on it.”

“Does your dad know that you are doing this?”

“What?”

“Talking to a therapist.” She starts when we shoots her a look. “Okay, peer counseling.”

“No. Why does that matter?”

It's her turn to level him with a stare, and he wilts.

“I just haven't had a chance to tell him yet.”

“In eleven weeks?” she asks, incredulous.

“Yeah.”

“Peeta, we'll get back to this after we get to the bottom of your distress today, but it's important for your support network to know you're seeking treatment, even if you're just talking to a peer.”

“Okay,” he concedes in his distraction.

“Let's switch gears. Your mother is potentially up for a promotion. Why is that unsettling?”

“Because she doesn't deserve it.”

“What does she deserve?”

“Not that,” he says and turns to grip the back of the chair he usually sits in.

“Does she deserve your forgiveness?”

“Fuck no,” he spits as he digs his fingers into the cushion.

“Do you think she wants to be forgiven?”

“Fuck her.”

“Well, that course of action is certainly not recommended,” she mumbles and makes a note on her tablet.

His head snaps to her, suddenly aware of her presence. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me?” she fires back at him.

“Yeah, fuck you,” his voice rises.

“Why me?”

“Because you drive me insane. I'm here to get better. But my thoughts are all jumbled around you. And you…,” he rambles. “You drive me crazy. That fuckable ass in those skirts, and that braid that I just want to grab.”

She gulps hard, and his words go straight to her clit.

“I leave here, wound up tighter than a clock spring and then spend the next hour with my hands wrapped around my cock, wishing it was your mouth or pussy. Wanting nothing more than to bend you over that chair and take you deep.”

His revelations shock and arouse her. “I...I hardly think this appropriate for your therapy.”

“Fuck my therapy. I want to kiss you.”

“That's not possible.” His gaze trains on her, tracking her… holding her down until they are in a staring contest.

“Why not? I know you feel it too.”

“You're my patient. It's not right.”

“So you don't deny it,” he says, coming dangerously close, trapping her between his arms in the chair and leaning over her.

“My feelings are irrelevant here. It's ill-advised.”

“And you're not really my doctor. I'm not really your patient,” he says on her neck. His lips not quite touching her, but the little puffs of air between his statements send warm chills down her spine.

“Technically true, but in the context of this room, I am and you are,” she says, pushing him back and waving her arms to the corners of the room.

“Then let's get outta here,” he suggests and stands up.

She nods. “Right, I'll just lock up.” She rises and goes to the desk to gather her things.

She swats his hands away as he tries to grab her hips while she shuts down her laptop. His wide palms flatten against her skirt. Goosebumps spread across her skin like wildfire. She forces herself to focus on packing up and the warmth seeping from his palms through her skirt.

She pushes on him and backs away from him, signaling that she needs some distance. A frown forms on his face that she wants to smooth away—they just have to get out of this office. She shoves her computer and files into her satchel and hooks it around her shoulder, grabbing her coat too.

He holds his hands up in defeat. “Okay, you win.”

She scowls at him and walks him to the door.

He files out into the hallway while she lags behind to lock the doors.

She faces him, exasperated and silent.

“How could you push me away like that?” he grouses.

She shoves him against the hallway wall. Fear flashes in his eyes, and his jaw clenches. She kisses his surprised and then pliant lips. They _are_ as soft as they look. He opens his mouth to her as an eager acceptance of her intrusion. She takes her time in exploring his mouth with her tongue after having imagined it for so long.  

“I wasn't pushing you away,” she manages between nips and licks. “I was trying to maintain our professional relationship in the confines of my office.”

A sexy grins spreads across his face. “So now that we're out of your office?”

“No one is listening.”

“No one to hear you when I make you come?”

She swallows hard and gets wetter for him. “Just you and me.” She tugs on him, towing him down the hallway toward the elevator. “My car is in the garage,” she says, leading the way. Their hands clasp after she selects G on the panel. She sees his worry lines crease his forehead just before he presses it to hers. Their staring contest resumes.

“I knew it when I shook your hand in our first meeting. I knew I was a goner.” His next kiss is light, soft and unexpected. Begging permission for access with a gentle swipe of his tongue instead of storming in. A ping echoes in the air around them, alerting them that they’ve arrived.

“That's me, in the corner,” she says, pointing to the only vehicle left in the garage.

When they reach her car, his hand slides from hers to her waist. He turns her body to cage her against the car. His hands roam her face, pulling on her lips to open them for him and then dipping down to her breasts. She turns to unlock the back door of her SUV and tosses in her coat and bag. She flips off the interior dome light to cloak them in darkness. He unzips her skirt to breach her underwear and cup her. Her body sags against his in defeat, and she can feel him, firm and fully erect against her backside. She widens her stance, granting him access between her legs. He parts her folds and slips in a finger. Two.

He sighs her name against her neck, drawing out the end in a hiss. “You're fucking soaked for me.”

His touch stokes the fire within her that he ignited earlier with his words. She grapples with her keys and the door frame to hang to something, anything as he alternates plunging his fingers within her and circling her clit. Her hips rock with his ministrations, bringing her closer to the edge.

“More,” she cries, so close.

He adds a third finger and seeks out her nipple with his other hand under her blouse. His lips fuse to her neck and she snaps, riding out her high on his hand. A sigh escapes her and floats into the humid air in front of them.

“That was incredible,” he says.

She pushes back on him so she can crawl into the back seat on her knees. “Get in here,” she commands.

He slides into the seat next to her and pulls the door shut behind him. She finishes taking off her skirt and leaves on her underwear, anxious to straddle his lap.

He unbuttons her blouse the rest of the way and peels it off her arms. He bites his knuckles when faced with her bra, already askew from his prior explorations.

“You're so beautiful. May I?” he asks tugging on the strap.

She nods and shivers as his fingers skim her back to unclasp her bra.

He gives her breast the utmost attention with kisses, licks, and tiny nibbles. The dusky hue of her nipples against his swollen, pink lips is as much a visual as tactile stimulant for her. She tugs his hair in turn, her fingers carding through his curls.

“You too,” she urges, tugging his shirt from his slacks. “I want to see you too.” Her eyes adjust from the shuffle of clothes in the darkness. His skin gleams against hers. She returns to kissing him and feeling her stiff nipples brushing against his solid chest. She grinds on him, spurred on by him grabbing her ass. Both of them seeking friction and mimicking the motions of their tongues against one another.

“Please tell me that you have something,” she manages between kisses. She palms him through his pants.

“Yeah, in my wallet,” he says and reaches into his rear pocket. She works his belt open. He raises up to roll his pants down. Something about Peeta Mellark being bare-assed in the back seat of her car makes her smile. They are about to have sex in her car like horny teenagers. She presses her lips to his to bring back the intensity. Each kiss is a new expression. Some spell out desire, some express hunger, some demand more and _now._

She raises a leg out to each side, one at a time, to slide her underwear off as she watches him fumble with the wrapper.

He rips open the foil and rolls the condom down his thick cock. Saliva collects in her mouth at the sight of it. His cock is bright pink and ready for her, the tip flushed an angry shade of red. She rubs the sheathed head of his cock, pushing the tip inside her.

“Kiss me,” he pleads. He cups her face, pulling her lips to his. She braces her arms on his shoulders as she sinks down onto him.

They share a groan once she is fully seated.

Their lips part as she raises up.

“Fuckkkkkkk, Katniss. You feel soooooo good.”

“I know,” she moans as she bears back down on him.

“Uhhhhhahhhh,” he grunts as she picks up her pace. “Once isn't going to be enough tonight. I already need more of you.”

“Yeah?” she says and swivels her hips. “I'm going to ruin you?”

His head falls back on the seat, nodding. “You're going to finish me off before we really begin,” he says in a hoarse voice. He smiles, and his teeth are so bright in the darkness of the car. “Come home with me. I have more condoms.”

“Sounds tempting,” she says and gasps when he grabs her hips to guide her.

“I want to bury myself in you, make you come over and o—”

She leans forward and kisses him, stopping his words and absorbing his pledge as her hips continue to rock into him. She holds him to it later.

 

Session 12: Aftermath

He is nervous and excited to see Katniss again. He has been floating around on a cloud since their last session and all of the intimate moments that followed. She was already packed for the long weekend, she had just started it in his bed. He reluctantly released her Thursday morning so she could visit her sister, but not until they were both completely sated several times over. He spent the next few days of the holiday inhaling her scent on their sex sheets, only leaving to eat or walk his dog.

He smiles at himself in the elevator, the reflection distorted on the metallic door.  He considers how taken he is with her and the implications that will have on his continued therapy. Last week, they had acted on their mutual attraction and growing feelings for one another. But Katniss could get in trouble if they are caught, since it's strictly forbidden. He reminds himself to stay on topic during the sessions. If he can.

When he enters her office, all of those thoughts fly from his head upon seeing her again and flashing back to her car and his place. He resists every urge to pin her to the wall with kisses. All of the strategies he worked on dissolve with his resolve to keep it professional.

She seems to share his enthusiasm and smiles widely as he strolls across the room. She's seated at her desk today, putting a piece of furniture between them, no doubt.

“Good afternoon Dr. Everdeen, how was your holiday?”

“Same to you, Mr. Mellark,” she grins at the formality. “I must admit that I was a little distracted this long weekend. I couldn't stop thinking about my work and getting back to it.”

“Hmmm...Real or not real, Dr. Everdeen, you had the best…..,” he draws out and her eyes flash to his, shaking her head and holding a finger to her lips to shush him. “Sleep of your entire life last week,” he finishes.

“Real,” she smiles. “With what little sleep I was allotted, yes.”

“It's because of the new guy you're seeing, Real or not real?”

“Real. These questions are venturing into personal territory, Mr. Mellark. Careful you don't hit the electric fence between safe and unsafe topics.”

“Okay, one more,” he asks.

“I’ll allow it,” she grins.

“Real or not real, Dr. Everdeen, you had four….,” he coughs and covers his mouth. “Orgasms last Wednesday night?”

“Not real,” she says and reddens in the face.

He frowns and starts to recount them in his head. Car. Hallway when he went down on her. Bed when he took her from behind. Morning shower when he got her off with his hand.

“I had five,” she admits.

His jaw drops, and he starts formulating his next question when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He must have forgotten to switch it off in his haste to see her again. It had been a long week without her, especially after knowing about all her new sounds.

“It's my dad. Do you mind?” he asks when he views the screen ID. “It must be an emergency because I told him that I see you on Thursday afternoons.”

She raises and eyebrow and nods. “Go ahead.”

“I'll make it quick,” he promises.

“Hmmm….” She taps a pen on her lips. “I’ve heard that before.”

He winks at her and answers the call. “Hey, Dad, what's up? I'm in a session.”

“Yes, that's why I called. I thought it best that you were with your therapist for this news.”

“Oh….okay,” he says and sits down. “What is it?”

“It's your mom.”

“Did something happen to her? Is she okay?” he asks in a voice laced with concern.

“No, nothing like that,” he assures. “Her promotion is more than a rumor—it’s actually happening. She is being promoted to CEO of her company. She called your brother, and he told me. I thought it might be upsetting and something you'd want to talk out in therapy.”

“Yeah. Ummm, thanks, Dad,” he mumbles. “Talk to you later.”

“Son, you need to process this. Just talk about it with Katniss.”

 “Okay, Dad, I will. Bye,” he says and turns off his phone after he hears his dad return the sentiment.

Katniss looks at him expectantly.

“It's my mom. She’s actually getting that promotion in her company. It's a big deal.”

“And your dad thought we should discuss it here?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Well, he's right. I’m also really glad to hear that you told him about therapy,” she encourages. “Peeta, tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Well, right now, I have a renewed vigor in confronting her.”

“Good, why is that?”

“She can't get away with this,” he seethes as he starts to pace the length of the room. His anxious hands cling to the roots of his hair as he spirals.

“What does this really mean?”

“It means she gets wealthier, gains more prestige... all the while the truth of what happened gets buried deeper and deeper.”

He feels himself ramping up, swelling with anger.

She rises from the desk and moves toward the pair of chairs on the middle of the room.

“Peeta, please sit down,” she says calmly and gestures for him to join her.

“This is your twelfth week of counseling, real or not real?”

“Real,” he huffs.

“In those twelve weeks, we've talked a lot about your anger and your mother, real or not real?”

“Real,” he mumbles between sucking in gulps of air.

“I want you to repeat after me: My name is Peeta Mellark. I am 27 years old. My home is Capitol City. I survived an abusive mother.”

“My name is Peeta Mellark. I am 27 years old. My home is Capitol City. I survived an abusive mother.”

“Good, good. It’s a technique to start with the simplest things you know to be true and work toward the more complicated. Let the list roll from your head when you feel yourself seizing up.”

“My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m very agitated.”

“Good. You are angry right now, real or not real?”

“Very real,” he says with a few more deep breaths.

“That’s a healthy anger, and we’ll use it to refocus on your therapy. We’ll channel it to prepare you for the confrontation.”

“Now more than ever, I want to confront her,” he states, already deflating. “See if she's really the screaming devil from my nightmares.”

“Do you think there's a chance that she's not?”

“I don't know...Maybe?” he pauses and take a few more deep breaths.

“It's good to entertain all possibilities, so you can be prepared.”

“I guess that after last week, I'm trying to be more positive,” he says and looks to her. “That people have surprised me lately, and I'd like to think there's good in everyone.”

“That's an excellent outlook, Peeta,” she smiles at his progress.  

He nods in agreement.

“My focus is your mental health. We can figure out the rest later. I'm here for you.”

“Thank you for saying that, Katniss. Truly.”

He leaves appointment on a high note after more intensive analysis and planning, glad to have resisted the dark urge to act out of character. Also relieved that everything is status quo with Katniss. No awkwardness, just hope for healing, even though they both know what the other looks like naked.

 

Session 13: Disarm

_Patient Mellark has exhibited incredible progress and is completely focused on confronting his fears head-on. His recent news has spurred him on, sped up his timetable, though he needs to be sure he's truly ready to face her. For a man of such strength, there's a certain fragility there too, simmering just below the surface. He nearly bubbled over in our last session, but I pulled him back from the brink. His temperament changes are to be expected as he peels back the sources of his pain. He exhibits all of the classic diagnostic traits of an emotionally and physically abused child._

She’s interrupted from her notes by her phone ringing.

She peers at the caller ID and sees that it’s another call from Dean Snow.

“Ahh, Ms. Everdeen. Dean Snow here. I’m so happy to have caught you before Mr. Mellark arrives for his scheduled appointment,” he starts.

“Yes, sir. How can I help you today?”

“Well, it’s an odd thing really, Ms. Everdeen. I noticed that the recording abruptly ended not long after it began the other week,” he says.

“Oh, that’s strange. Maybe it was pressed accidentally?” she says, trying to cover her complicit actions.

“Do be warned, Ms. Everdeen, you're not to have these types of mistakes. These sessions are being monitored for a reason.”  

“Yes, sir. I’ll be more careful, sir.”

“Good, I’m glad that we understand each other. I have my eye on you.”

“Yes, sir. I need to go for the appointment.”

“Ahh yes, of course, have a good afternoon.”

“Goodbye, sir,” she says and ends the call.

She barely has time to tuck away her phone before Rue lets Peeta into the office. He has bags under his eyes, and she wonders how he’s been sleeping lately.

He falls into the chair and look over to her.

“Before we start, I want to tell you about my dream last night. Well, more of a nightmare,” he says as he sits.

“Go on,” she prompts and moves to sit across from him in her chair.

“I was walking between glass buildings, somewhere nice. There was a wedding or something, and I could see guests through the windows on my right and left.”

“Could they see you? The guests inside the buildings?”

“Yes. Then a figure came striding toward me. Determination set on their face. She called to me and I turned, finally recognizing her. Her hair was silver, so it didn't fit my memory.”

“What happened next?”

“It was my mom. And she was just standing there, pointing a loaded gun at me. I could tell that she had a weak grip on the weapon, so I smacked it out of her hand and tossed it in the bushes behind me.”

“That's great, Peeta. Keep going.”

“I yelled at her. Asked her if she was really that stupid. Or desperate to silence me.”

“And then?”

“Then my morning alarm went off.”

“Given your dream, there's still unresolved fear and anger, but you conquered it. You disarmed her and took that power away from her. Real or not real?”

“Real.”

“So let’s do that when you meet with her.”  

She makes a plan for confrontation and starts role playing to support him.

“Would you prefer that I come with you? We could go in as one.”

“No. Thank you, though. That's very considerate. Some walks you have to take alone.”

“Okay, so you're there. You've greeted her. Visualize it.”

His deep blue eyes disappear behind his eyelids. His eyelashes shine in the last bit of sunlight in the window, and she wonders how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks.

“What do you say next, Peeta? Where do want to go? How far do you want to take it?”

“I... I don't see her back in our family life or anything extreme like that.”

“Do you want any relationship with her at all?”

“No. I don't think I could ever trust her.”

“That’s fair.”

“This is a journey twenty-two years in the making. I think I was always meant to confront her. Make her face her past head-on. I haven't been able to find closure.”

“It's likely that she hasn't either.”

“But she must sleep at night. So, on some level, she's moved on. Her company profile doesn't mention a family,” he says in agitation. “I found the obituary from when her father died. There's usually a whole section about descendants and—nothing. No mention of her three sons. It's like we don't exist to her.”

“And that hurts.”

“You’re damn right it hurts,” he says with an elevated voice.

“Okay, let's get back on track.”

He takes a few breaths, his cheeks sucking in air and puffing out, to calm himself down.

“So you are in her office...Are you sitting or standing? Really visualize yourself in that space.”

“I think...sitting. Standing might be too aggressive…” he leads off.

“We're only going to work with the factors we can control…” she says to redirect him.

He twitches at that, and she loses his focus to a point on the wall.

“Which is only you at this point. We have no control over your mother's actions or reactions.”

“Right,” he affirms.

“How were you planning on getting access to her?”

“Bakery delivery? I could bake her a Nightlock cake.”

“Peeta, that isn’t even funny. She wins if you’re malicious back to her. You know that.”

“I know, I know. It’s just fun to think about giving her a dose of her own—well kind of—medicine.”

The clock signals the end of his appointment and Rue pokes her head in the door.

“It's fine, Rue. We're in the middle of something. I'll lock up,” she says.

“And then what? After a bakery delivery?” she redirects after Rue leaves.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles and switches positions in the chair. “It’s just…”

“What? What is it? Now is the time to get it all out, Peeta,” she encourages. “Get it all out with me, here, now. Tell me your worst. Let her go.”

“A mother should love and protect her children, not devise ways to hurt them,” he says as he moves from the chair to the floor, kneeling before her.

“That’s right, she should. Yours just didn’t,” she says.  

“What kind of monster lives inside of her? What piece of her soul is missing?” he cries.

He’s begging for answers with his eyes.

“Why didn't she love me enough to stop herself from hurting me?” he yells. “Why wasn't that enough to pull her back from the darkness that engulfed her?”

She eases to the floor to hold him, with her legs tucked underneath and her shins digging into carpet.

“Why didn't my mother love me?” he sobs into her skirt in a muffled plea.

He sags against her, his arms locked around her waist and his tears drying on her skirt. She pats on his head and shoulders, anything she can touch to soothe him. She strokes his back, then runs her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair at his temples, comforting, reassuring him.

“You are safe and sound. She can't hurt you anymore. She's already done her worst.”

She leans back to switch off the recording. The hour is up anyway, and no one needs to hear him crying.

His hands clench and release on her waist, pulling her back to him. His fingers walk up her spine and yank on her braid. Hard. White hot flashes spark up her spine in pleasure.

“Peeta?” she whispers, meeting his gaze briefly before he descends on her neck. There isn't a speck of blue in his eyes, his pupils are blown wide. A warning bell goes off in her head to stop, but she’s entranced.

“I need you,” he murmurs against her skin.

His teeth graze her flesh, followed by his mouth, finally massaging the straining chords with his lips. His tongue. His grip relaxes on her braid as he kisses up her jawline. He latches on to her ear and bites down.

She moans in encouragement.

His hands find purchase on her breasts. He claws at her blouse and flimsy bra to expose her tits like man starved for another taste. He draws one nipple into his mouth while he tweaks the other between his fingers. When he bites down, she tugs on his scalp, eliciting a deep groan from his throat.

An entirely new hunger spreads within her as well. This is not tender, it's primal. She wrestles his shirt from his waistband and hastily unbuttons it to expose his chest. She wants to claim his body the way he's branding hers with his scorching kisses. She drags her rough nails under his t-shirt and across his chest, leaving red marks on his freckled and flushed skin. He lavishes her other breast before lifting his shirt over his head.

It’s not enough. She needs more, and she feels that he does too in his desperate kisses. She grabs him by the cock to show him what she wants.  

Her skirt is trapped under her folded legs. He pushes on her until she's leaned back enough to loosen the skirt zipper and pull it up past her waist. She spreads her legs before him and lays back on the floor. He unbuckles his pants, pushes them down to his knees, and his cock springs free.

“Don't tear my underwear,” she commands in a power play. He obliges by gingerly sliding the garment down her legs and over her lace-up boots. He swipes through her slick folds, testing her, teasing her with his fingers, and then hoists her thighs over his hips.  

She cradles his hips between hers as he barrels into her. She is a vessel for his pain that ebbs from him, one thrust at a time. She absorbs his grief, his anguish.

“Harder,” she demands, digging her ragged fingernails into his back for good measure.

He consents and drives into her with more power, his hips setting a merciless pace against her body.

He pulls completely out of her and flips her in another reversal. He slams back into her with force and grips her ribcage. She wouldn't be surprised to find bruises tomorrow from his iron grip. He pulls one hand from her body to reach between them at the point of entry, buffering his relentless pace. He places his thumb on her clit to rub circles in sync with his thrusts. Her body gets pulled into the maelstrom, and she squeezes her eyes shut to prolong the wave undulating through her. When she comes, he slows his motions to push through her trembling walls.   

She feels him finally let go too, pouring his hurt into her depths, and they collapse together on the floor.

Once the euphoria passes and their breathing calms, the evidence remains that they just had gritty grief sex in the middle of what was supposed to be a safe zone.

“So, were you fucking me...or your mother?” she asks beneath him.

“Not real. I was definitely fucking you,” he says as he shifts off of her.

“Okay,” she says as she goes about the task of putting herself back together. Peeta grabs the convenient tissue box and offers her a handful to swab at herself. He uses one as well before tucking himself back into his boxer briefs.

“In fact, to prove it to you. I'll go see her before our next appointment,” he says as he pulls his pants up and refastens his belt.

“Peeta...that's rather abrupt. Are you sure?” she pauses to pull down and straighten her skirt. “I wanted you to be prepared not only to see her but also to process the ramifications of seeing her.”

“I'm positive. We've been at this for thirteen weeks. I've listened to everything you've said.”

“Yes, but we've just seen what happens when your emotions overtake you,” she says, gesturing to the floor.

He looks to the floor and returns his gaze to her. “Did you not like it?”

She quirks her lips up in the corner and makes a face at him. “That's not the point of my observation. I feel like I’ve broken just about every rule here. I just fucked my patient.”

“To clarify, you fucked your _fake_ patient several times last week too.”

“Right, but not _in_ the office. You signed the contract too. For the purposes of this program, we're to treat everything in this room as if it were a real therapy session.”

“Then consider me thoroughly analyzed and satisfied with my therapist,” he cracks and smirks at his own joke. He walks to her and wraps his arms around her.

“Peeta, I'm serious,” she says, looking up to catch his eyes. “I could lose my ride and get kicked out of the program.” She melts into his embrace.

“Yes, but you turned off the tape, right?”

She nods against his chest.

“The hour was up. We were technically done with the session,” he says and kisses her forehead.

“Yeah, you're right but seriously….this can't happen again—,” she says and glances up to see his brows knit together in question. “Here,” she finishes.

He breathes a sigh of relief and releases her to collect her things.

“Are you really going to see her?” she asks as she packs up her bag.

“I’m going to try,” he says as he shrugs on his coat.

“You can call me, text me, whatever. If you need help. Or someone to talk you through it.”

“I know.”

She’s hopeful that he will.

 

Session 14: Showtime

He rides the elevator up for what is likely his final appointment with Katniss. The semester is almost over, with the holidays fast approaching and her research hours ending for the year. Their little pseudo-therapy arrangement will wrap up, but he is hopeful that they will continue to see each other, one way or another. Professionally, socially, intimately. He takes a deep breath before opening the door to the reception area. He nods to Rue on his way into Katniss’ office.

“She's ready for you,” she calls from the reception area, a knowing little smirk on her face. He guesses they have been fairly transparent about their growing bond.

He opens the door and tries to keep his eyes off the corner of the office they coupled in the last session. He looks to Katniss, and she’s sporting one of her brightest smiles yet, showing no signs she’s upset over how they ended last time. She’s expecting to hear about the confrontation. He can't disappoint her now—she believes in him so much. He tries to calm his erratic breathing and sits down.

“So???” Katniss is virtually bouncing with anticipation in her seat. “How’d it go?”

“Well, it didn't start off great. My attempts to gain access to my mother’s office were thwarted at the lower levels on Monday.”

Disappointment and concern etch her face at this news.

“I repeated my mantra on my way home, and I tried again on Wednesday,” he continues, and her face brightens again with the prospect of success.

“Wow, that was yesterday! You didn't text me though,” she states with a lilt at the end that sounds more like a question.

“Yeah, so I was successful at getting through her door. And it was just like what we talked about, how we planned it,” he says and shifts in his seat.

“Really? Just like that?”

“I walked into her office. Her face fell from the fraudulent smile. Her recognition was immediate, as was my satisfaction. But I swallowed that down though, because that's not what I went there for.”

“Keep going...” she encourages.

“I cleared my throat to gain her attention. Her ice cold eyes snapped to mine. She looked up at me, through me, and gaped like fish out of water.”

“She had no words?”

“No, not yet,” he pauses. “She was smaller than I remembered.”

“Oh, okay, I’ll just let you tell me,” she says and settles back down into her seat.

“As I walked to her, the room seemed to shrink. And after it was done, I thought about it all night long. It was if I wasn’t really there, but rather watching it from a distance. Numb.”

“Go on.”

“I asked her, ‘Did you hate me that much? Hate dad that much to…’ and I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t even say it, so I don’t know how I expected her to.”

“You wouldn’t have had to say it, and she certainly wouldn’t have spelled it out—but you both knew.”

“Well, she fumbled with her words. ‘Yes. No.’ I asked her if that had changed, and she nodded at me.”

“That’s good!”

“I said, ‘I don't know why you did what you did, but I'm not going to carry that pain and anger anymore. I came here to tell you that I forgive you,’” he recites.

“You did?!? And what did she do next?”

“Her face broke. It morphed between sadness and relief,” he says and sits on his hands to control his twitching. “I was expecting anger, but she didn’t seem to have any more of that in her.”

“And then what?”

“She said she thought about calling me everyday, to apologize for everything.”

“Did she say what stopped her from doing that?”

He shrugs and looks up to the left. “She said that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. I then accused her of not appearing to be that broken up about it,” he says, recrossing his legs in his seat. “She said that wouldn't even try to explain herself. That she couldn’t believe she was capable of such atrocities either. She's just thankful that I grew up okay.”

“Hmm… Abusers do have extremely thick defense mechanisms. Sometimes they can’t even see what they did was wrong, so it’s good that she could admit that. Did you tell her about yourself? Did you tell her about therapy?”

He shrugs again, “Yes and no. I didn’t want to open up too much. But I did tell her about therapy. And that I grew up with a hole in my heart because I couldn't reconcile the how or why.”

“I bet that stung her.”

“It must have, because she apologized again for causing me distress.”

“How did you feel?”

“I felt...relieved,” he exhales. “Relieved that it was over and it wasn’t looming in my future anymore.”

“I bet. Do you think you’ll see her again?”

“Ahhh…” he fudges. “There was so much more we could have said, but I was exhausted. And then it was over.”

“Peeta, it’s truly wonderful when there can real reconciliation and healing between an abusive parent and their traumatized child…when each can feel that the awful past has been somehow redeemed in the present. But I won’t hammer you with theories or lectures about the benefits of closure on the past. Sometimes the best thing to do is just close the door on it and move on.”

“That’s what I want to do, close the door,” he confirms. Just close it, nail it shut, and seal it off.  

“Can you keep that compartmentalized?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if something else changes with her and you find out….we need to develop some coping mechanisms in place to keep you from spiraling out of control.”

“So we’ll keep seeing each other….professionally?”

“Well, no. I’m still not a doctor and can’t take you as a patient technically, but we can talk about it...from time to time,” she says coyly.

“Ohh, okay, I’d like that,” he says and relaxes a little bit.

“You’re very resilient—and persistent—so I have no doubt that I can give you the tools after our counseling is complete to face anything,” she says with a small smile.

“That’s very encouraging,” he smiles back even wider.  

“To circle back to your initial fears, I want to ask if this experience—confronting her—if it changed you? Do you feel different?

“Yeah, but in a good way. It didn't change me into something I'm not. It didn’t change me into her either. I think I was worried that if I’d expressed my hurt and anger like she had, that I would somehow turn into her,” he says and takes a deep breath. “But it didn’t. I think it gave me my hope back. That warm, sunny feeling that most children carry with them everyday. I have it in my heart….”

His eyes slide to the recorder.

Her eyes flit to the clock and she indicates five more minutes.

He can wait five more minutes to tell her what else is in his heart.

He might not ever be able to tell her the rest.

 

Epilogue

_It continues with this fantasy._

_I borrowed song lyrics here and there in my description to flesh out the production. A convenient distortion of my few remaining truths. It was in this performance that mother and son ended well, clutching at one another in forgiveness and absolution. The truth is that Carol Mellark went about her day, blissfully unaware that her forgotten son stood outside her office in Merchant Square. That I never saw her. That I never went into her building. That my walk across town ended at the river and that I limped home, unable and unwilling to confront my mother. I decided on my way there that I didn’t need to. Her apologies or acknowledgements weren’t going to make me whole again, only I can do that._

_What sense of hope could Katniss draw from that though? Who would sign off on a patient with no closure? I couldn’t do it to her. I couldn’t ruin her final report for the program. She heard the story she wanted to hear. She closed her official records with me and we started a new chapter._

_Now when I wake up, her arms are there to comfort me._

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

>  A/N: All the thanks to Caryn (@papofglencoe) for keeping me motivated while writing and honest in editing! Thanks to Misshoneywell (@badnovels) for putting on this show that allowed me to write the idea lingering in the back of my mind and giving this fic a pre-read to boot! And thanks to Alice (@thegreatorangedragon) for providing invaluable input! Also, I don’t own The Hunger Games.


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